


Mise En Place

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Baking, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Smut, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Kitchen Sex, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rated E for Eating Pornographically, Recipes, Rimming, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Crowley is finally going to defeat his nemesis, macarons. He's got everything set up to maximise his chance of success but he didn't account for one mischievous angel with other plans.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 125
Collections: Happy Birthday moveslikebucky!, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Mise En Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MovesLikeBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/gifts).



> Bucky! My love, my darling! I hope this is fluffy enough smut for you because you only deserve the best things on your birthday! I love you!
> 
> My thanks to Tarek for the art and support! And to NarumiKaiko for the beta work and all round awesomeness <3

Retirement is suiting Crowley far better than he had expected. Instead of finding himself restless and cranky, he’s found relaxing outlets for his unrelenting energy. He has hobbies he enjoys and he maintains a sort of dabbling, freelancing amount of mischief-making that only he gets to judge for and doesn’t have to be justified to anyone else. As both he and Aziraphale had expected, Crowley took to gardening remarkably well and quickly transformed the overgrown, untended cottage garden into an oasis.

The baking was a surprise, though. Crowley had tried it on a whim, wondering if he could make anything that would get that delicious little moan out of Aziraphale. His first attempt had been a simple Victoria sponge cake with fresh cream and strawberries. He still remembers, with perfect clarity, exactly how Aziraphale’s eyes had fluttered closed as the first forkful of cake hit his tongue. The breathy moan had been practically indecent and it had sealed Crowley’s fate as a hobby baker.

In the time that they’ve been living together- in their own cottage, on their own side- Crowley has expanded his repertoire significantly. He bakes bread, cakes, tarts, pastries, meringues, really anything that he thinks Aziraphale might like. Anything that earns that noise, that coy smile, and the corresponding warm feeling in his chest.

These are the thoughts that Crowley is absently considering as he gathers his ingredients and tools together for the challenge he has set himself today. As much as it pains Crowley to admit it, even to himself, not all of his bakes are first-time successes. Equally, as tempting as it is, Crowley doesn’t use any of his demonic abilities in ensuring the quality of his final product. Although, after one particularly painful crème brûlée episode, Crowley suspects that Aziraphale may have had a very stern word with the oven about what happens to appliances that allow Crowley’s creations to burn. Any uneven rise, poor crumb, lacklustre flavour, or dryness was entirely the fault of Crowley’s still-improving skill.

Today, he faces his nemesis for the fourth time. Today, Crowley will be victorious. Today, Crowley WILL make perfect macarons.

He weighs out his last ingredient into an individual bowl and resists the urge to give the whole lot a thoroughly demonic glare before beginning. Aziraphale always says that he can taste when the ingredients have been terrified, even if Crowley doesn’t consider it cheating.

With everything in its place, Crowley firmly rolls up his sleeves, puts on his black apron, slips off his simple silver wedding ring, and washes from his hands to his elbows. He’s battle ready and confident that today is the day he will win the war.

He tips ground almonds and icing sugar into the food processor and blitzes it in short bursts until it’s thoroughly combined, then he pours the mix through a fine sieve and makes a fluffy mound in the bowl. He’s already split the egg whites into two halves, so it’s easy to mix one half into the almond and sugar mound until he’s created a smooth paste. So far, so good, Crowley isn’t getting flustered yet and the simple mixing and combining is soothing.

At the touch of a fingertip, one ring of the fancy induction hob comes to life, faintly illuminating under the saucepan of sugar and water. Crowley checks and checks again that everything is where he needs it, slightly adjusting the angle of the sugar thermometer in the pan so he can better supervise its gradual climb. Barely daring to move, Crowley watches the rising level of the sugar thermometer, his hands practically itching to start whisking the other half of the egg whites. Knowing that he’s fallen into this trap before, Crowley keeps his hands in tight fights by his sides until the thermometer shows 110°C and then it’s all hands on deck for whisking.

This is, of course, when Aziraphale pads into the kitchen with an air of innocence so carefully crafted that even Crowley almost misses the undercurrent of mischief that he brings with him.

“How’s it going?” Aziraphale asks, peering into the bubbling saucepan.

“Fine, great. Don’t touch anything.” Crowley’s answer is terse, but only because he’s at such a critical point in proceedings.

Aziraphale holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender and openness as he backs away from the hob.

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering, love. I only came in to find something to nibble.”

Crowley barely registers the comment, the thermometer is almost at 116°C and his egg whites are barely foaming yet. The familiar macaron anxiety is beginning to creep in and he doesn’t want to let it get a foothold.

The fridge opens behind him and Aziraphale sighs pointedly, presumably at the lack of nibblable items. Crowley shakes his head a little, focusing back on his egg whites and that overly eager sugar thermometer. At 117.5°C, the egg whites start to come together into something more workable and Crowley almost cries in relief. He plucks the pan off the hob as soon as the sugar thermometer reads 118°C and begins slowly pouring the sugar syrup down the side of the bowl holding his egg whites.

“I think I’ve found what I want for a snack,” Aziraphale says, inviting Crowley’s comment.

“Hmm?” Crowley offers, admittedly distracted.

In answer, Aziraphale sinks his teeth into the meat of Crowley’s arse. Not hard enough to hurt, but certainly enough to make Crowley jump and flick a blob of meringue out of the bowl.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley chides as he puts down the, thankfully empty, saucepan. “You know the rules, if you can’t behave then you can’t be in the kitchen while I’m baking.”

He twists to look at where Aziraphale is kneeling on the floor behind him, his hands folded primly atop his thighs and a wicked look in his eyes that makes something hot squirm and coil low in Crowley’s belly.

“I’m behaving,” Aziraphale says, despite all evidence to the contrary. “I happen to think I’m being very good.”

“Menace,” Crowley says decisively and turns back to his whisking.

The peaks of his meringue are starting to look nicely glossy and he allows himself a moment of pride before adding a tiny drip of gel colouring into the mix. Within seconds, the whole mix is a consistent, violent red colour. The sight makes him grin and glance back at Aziraphale for a spot of validation. Having not moved from his spot on the floor, Aziraphale nods and smiles encouragingly. Whatever he’s up to, Crowley decides not to engage and carry on with his macarons. No filthy minded angel is going to cost him his victory today.

Setting the electric whisk aside, Crowley picks up the palette knife and scrapes the red meringue mixture out on top of the almond and sugar paste from before. This is where he went wrong with attempt number three, he thinks, over mixing at this stage. By the time he’s switched out the palette knife for the spatula, Crowley has almost forgotten about the Aziraphale-shaped distraction waiting to happen.

The batter is combined and almost at the right consistency when Aziraphale strikes, grabbing the loose linen trousers that Crowley is wearing and yanking them down to his ankles.

“Oi!” Crowley yelps, retaining just enough presence of mind to set the spatula down gently before bending to pull his trousers back up.

He’s bent in half, wrestling his waistband out of Aziraphale’s fingers when the touch of Aziraphale’s warm tongue across the sensitive patch just behind his balls has him gasping and clutching at the kitchen worktop. Trousers forgotten, Crowley braces himself against the cool granite and tries to breathe.

“Aziraphale, angel, love of mine, what the ever loving _fuck_ are you doing?”

“Treating myself to a little snack between meals,” Aziraphale answers simply. “Don’t mind me, darling.”

Crowley rests his forehead on the counter and groans as Aziraphale returns to his task, licking up the seam of Crowley’s balls and then over his hole in a way that makes Crowley’s hips jerk.

“Please,” Crowley bites off a moan to beg. “Please, let me finish these and then you can have my undivided attention.”

Aziraphale merely hums and licks into Crowley more firmly as if that should be taken as his answer.

Crowley tries to straighten, to use his posture to dissuade Aziraphale from continuing to torment him but Aziraphale digs his strong thumbs into Crowley’s buttocks and holds him open. It takes a demonic level of self-control to push himself upright, not whimpering at the drag of the apron across the head of his too-eager cock. At least he’s got everything set up to make his work a bit easier.

Truly, Crowley knows he would feel utterly bereft if Aziraphale actually stopped, he just wishes that he hadn’t picked the day of Crowley’s macaron Death Match. It’s with trembling hands that Crowley begins scraping his batter into the piping bag. The jug he’s using to hold the bag upright wobbles each time he knocks it with the spatula. He’s terrified that it might fall and spill but Aziraphale’s tongue feels incredible and all other thoughts are secondary.

Crowley bought a silicon baking mat with the circles drawn on, hoping it would help with his spacing and tendency to oversize each blob. Drawing the baking tray over to him, Crowley realises that he’s going to need all the help he can get. Aziraphale doesn’t appear to be tiring and he’s dropped one hand to tug gently at Crowley’s balls.

He takes another fortifying breath and picks up the piping bag, twisting the end closed in a deft motion. As soon as he lines up for the first swirl, Aziraphale pulls his sinful tongue away from Crowley’s hole and kisses his way up Crowley’s back to rest his chin on Crowley’s shoulder.

“You’re so good with your hands, my love. I adore watching you work.” Aziraphale says, appearing content to observe Crowley dispensing neat circles of batter.

Crowley is quite pleased with his technique, he’s seen sloppier piping from professionals so he feels justified in a touch of pride. The batter holds its form well enough, not flowing out of the circles, which is gratifying as well. However, truth be told, Crowley is far less invested in the outcome of these macarons than he was when he started. Aziraphale’s breath is warm and tickly by his ear and as Crowley pipes out his 24th and final circle, he turns to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek.

“Let me put the oven on to heat and then you’ve got my undivided attention for half an hour,” Crowley promises, between two kisses.

Aziraphale pouts but lets Crowley out of his hold to turn on the oven. Knowing when he’s been beaten, Crowley steps out of his trousers and kicks them into a corner.

“Half an hour isn’t very long,” Aziraphale points out, looking sulky.

“No one made you put down your book and come bother me in here!” Crowley teases back, shivers of pleasure still running through him from the memory of Aziraphale’s tongue in his most intimate places.

“You did. All I could think about was you in here, being so unfairly beautiful and desperately sexy, with no one appreciating you. It was an injustice that I couldn’t stand.” Aziraphale sounds so reasonable in his explanation that Crowley has to laugh. Aziraphale advances, catching Crowley’s wrists and drawing their bodies together. “I love how you look when you bake for me.”

Crowley’s breath catches in his throat as Aziraphale nudges his hip against Crowley’s erection. He’s filled with a bone-deep need for Aziraphale, the constant ember that he carries fanned into an inferno by the attention and closeness.

Crowley slides one hand along Aziraphale’s jaw and up into the hair behind his ear. His fingers are sticky with sugar and egg whites, but his need to touch is too strong to be put off.

“C’mere, you impossible bastard,” Crowley mutters, far too affectionate to cause any offence.

Willingly, Aziraphale lifts his chin to present his lips for a kiss. Crowley presses soft, delicate kisses against the warm mouth of his husband, gentle and meaningful. Aziraphale melts into the slow pace he’s setting and laces the fingers of his free hand between Crowley’s. Just as he feels Aziraphale give himself over fully to the kisses, Crowley tightens his grip in Aziraphale’s hair enough to hold his head still. Aziraphale gasps at the change in sensation and Crowley smiles into the sweet kiss he presses to Aziraphale’s lips. Without warning, he licks a wide, wet stripe up from Aziraphale’s chin to his hairline.

“You foul creature!” Aziraphale pushes Crowley away from him and wipes his face on the sleeve of his shirt. “What a terrible husband I have!”

Crowley is snickering, far too amused with himself in the moment. Still, he coaxes Aziraphale back into his arms and kisses the top of his head.

“Revenge is mine!” Crowley laughs into Aziraphale’s hair.

Any worries that Crowley might have about Aziraphale’s reaction are immediately soothed by the press of warm palms at the small of his back, lifting the hem of his shirt as far as the tie of his apron allows. The action brings their bodies much more closely together until Crowley can feel the effect this is having on Aziraphale, pressing against his thigh in a hot, urgent line.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley drops his voice into a low purr, “Is that for me?”

“No, I’m saving it for the postman,” Aziraphale says, sarcastically.

Pushing Aziraphale down into one of the chairs at their breakfast table, Crowley sinks to his knees and begins opening the buttons of Aziraphale’s fly.

“I’m afraid this package is going to be delayed, then.”

Aziraphale giggles at Crowley’s pun, his hands flitting to cover his mouth, and Crowley just adores him. He’s distracted from his goal for a moment, just admiring and basking in Aziraphale’s joyous anticipation, but a wriggle of Aziraphale’s hips refocuses him. Feeling unbelievably lucky, Crowley draws Aziraphale’s cock out of his trousers and gives it an appreciative stroke.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice is treacle, dark and sticky.

Wanting to take him apart slowly, Crowley puts one hand on Aziraphale’s chest, pushing him into the backrest of the chair and giving Crowley some room to move. He presses a kiss onto the thick head of Aziraphale’s cock and flicks his tongue against the underside as he eases Aziraphale’s foreskin down.

Lapping his tongue over the slit and frenulum makes Aziraphale shiver. Crowley can see motion at the edges of his vision where Aziraphale’s fingers curl into the fabric of his trousers, holding on to his self control with a physical action. In response, Crowley switches to long, slow licks up the underside of Aziraphale’s shaft. Just when it seems that Aziraphale is about to tear holes in his trousers, Crowley sinks down and sucks Aziraphale’s cock fully into his mouth.

There’s a subtle lift of Aziraphale’s hips that thrills Crowley, showing his impatience and want in defiance of the slow pace that Crowley is setting. He never gets used to this, this open desire and lust that Aziraphale has for him. It’s with these blissful thoughts in his mind that Crowley begins to move his head, sucking Aziraphale in and pulling off in smooth movements, pushing just a little deeper each time until he can feel Aziraphale’s cock nudging at the back of his throat.

“Crowley, yes, you’re so good,” Aziraphale’s self control begins to crack and he babbles praise. “You look so beautiful with my cock in your mouth. Look at you, sweet thing, my love, taking me so well.” His voice is ragged, edged with a deep need.

Crowley’s heart swells to hear it and he can’t help but give Aziraphale what he wants. He reaches for Aziraphale’s hands, prising his fingers out of their death grip and guides them into his hair, looking up at Aziraphale to show him that he can take control.

Licking his lips, his eyes shining, Aziraphale takes hold of Crowley’s head by his hair and pulls him closer. It’s all Crowley can do to relax and give Aziraphale access to his mouth and throat, high on the thrill of being used for Aziraphale’s pleasure. The symphony of grunts and moans that accompany Aziraphale’s desperate rutting is a better soundtrack than any composer has ever dreamed up. It’s thoroughly destroyed by the harsh ringing buzz of Crowley’s kitchen timer.

He pushes himself up and off Aziraphale’s cock with regret but purpose, wiping his mouth on the sleeve bunched up at his elbow.

Aziraphale is still making confused sounds of loss when Crowley silences the timer. The black apron is tenting out in front of Crowley like something out of a Carry On movie but he does his best to ignore all distractions in favour of sliding his trays of macarons into the oven. He sets a 14 minute timer and begins gathering up all the things that need cleaning.

He’s running hot water into the washing up bowl when he remembers why he makes it a general rule to never ignore Aziraphale completely. The still-wet hardness of Aziraphale’s cock nudges against his bare arse as Aziraphale boxes him in, one hand gripping the counter either side of Crowley’s hips.

“Tease,” Aziraphale breathes into the kisses he’s leaving on the back of Crowley’s neck. “Leaving me right at the best part.”

“I did tell you,” Crowley protests as he dunks the mixing bowls into the soapy water. “You’ve got even less time now, angel, so don’t start anything you don’t want interrupted.”

With both hands in the sink, Crowley isn’t best placed to avoid Aziraphale’s sudden lunge, grasping his cock through the apron. Biting his lip to keep from moaning, Crowley tries to focus on scrubbing the sticky batter out of the mixing bowls while Aziraphale idly traces the outline of his erection. The pressure feels more dispersed with the apron in the way, so that Crowley’s whole cock is tingling with it, twitching under Aziraphale’s fingers. He glances at the timer.

“Aziraphale, _please_ , eight minutes and I’m all yours. Just let me finish these.”

In answer, Aziraphale slips his hand under Crowley’s apron and strokes across his abdomen, still kissing Crowley’s neck and shoulders.

“More interested in finishing these than you were in finishing me? I should be insulted.” His voice is soft and loving, removing any of the sting those words might have held.

“Please,” Crowley grips the edge of the sink as he pleads.

Aziraphale moves away, his hands up in surrender, and Crowley releases some of the tension he’s holding.

Cleaning helps and he prefers to do it by hand when he’s feeling stressed like this. By the time he’s finished, the timer is showing just under two minutes left. He’s got a clean, clear, dry section of countertop to work with, oven gloves to hand, and space to put the trays down. There should be no reason for error or disaster, except Aziraphale.

Crowley shoots a look over his shoulder to where Aziraphale is sitting. He’s taken off his own trousers and underwear in order to give his cock languid, luxurious strokes whilst openly ogling Crowley’s body.

“You should bake in just an apron from now on,” Aziraphale offers upon catching Crowley’s gaze. “This shirt will only get dirty as well.”

Any snarky response that Crowley was forming is interrupted by the alarm of the timer. Crowley silences it and leaps into action, blind to everything but his precious macaron shells.

He pulls the trays out of the oven, one in each hand and slides them onto the hob so he can close the oven door. Gently, but quickly, Crowley slips the silicon mat off each tray and onto the cold granite work surface.

It’s a real struggle, keeping his hands off the shells while they cool, but he manages by washing up the two baking trays and putting them in the rack to dry. He’s almost too nervous to touch the bright red discs, afraid of finding them too soft or crumbling them in his overeager fingers. With a deep, steadying breath, Crowley lifts the corner of one silicon mat and bends it away from the macaron shells until they begin to peel off. They are perfectly red, uniform with no browning on the tops. Crowley is pleased with the slight rise, the sheen of the shells and the texture at the bases. He’s almost ready to celebrate this batch as a success when a gentle cough draws his attention.

“How are they?” Aziraphale asks politely, still dragging his hand up and down his length.

“They’re looking pretty perfect, to be honest. But you know what they say about where the proof is,” Crowley places the last shell back on the sheet, no longer at risk of sticking, and wipes his hands on his apron.

“My appetite is currently indisposed,” Aziraphale says, holding his free hand out to Crowley. “Prior engagement, it seems.”

Crowley lets Aziraphale draw him closer until he’s standing beside Aziraphale’s chair and looking down into the radiant face of his husband.

“What would you like to do about that?” Crowley asks as he runs his fingers through Aziraphale’s soft hair.

Aziraphale takes his hand back in order to run it up Crowley’s thigh, rucking up his apron until he can lean forward and take Crowley’s softening cock in his mouth. Immediately, Crowley feels himself beginning to fill and harden once more, swelling in Aziraphale’s hot mouth until it can’t contain him all and Aziraphale switches to licking and stroking at him.

“I rather think I’d like to have you, in here, and in your pretty apron,” he says between licks.

“It’s not a _pretty_ apron, angel,” Crowley huffs but it’s a token protest.

Aziraphale stands and backs Crowley into a corner until he’s against the counter. Refusing to play at being intimidated, Crowley initiates a kiss that finds him winding his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and drawing him closer until the only things separating their bodies are two shirts and an apron.

“You said you’d be all mine, is that what you are now?” Aziraphale kisses away from Crowley’s mouth and down his neck as he asks.

“Yes, all yours. Always yours as much as you’re mine.” Crowley gasps, clinging to Aziraphale’s shoulders.

With his hands at Crowley’s hips, Aziraphale spins him around to face the counter and grinds the hardness of his cock against Crowley’s buttocks.

“Open the cupboard in front of you,” Aziraphale says, his hands still firm on Crowley’s hips.

“Angel, no, you’re not using the good olive oil as lube.”

“Just open the cupboard!” Aziraphale’s voice contains a barely concealed giggle.

Crowley reaches up to open the cupboard, knowing that he’ll hand Aziraphale whatever he wants, good olive oil or not. Sitting just behind the door is a bottle of lube, the same as the one in their bedroom, nestled between the Branston pickle and a jar of olives. Crowley pulls it out with a half laugh.

“Was that really necessary?” Crowley asks as he hands the bottle to Aziraphale.

“Is that not where we keep it?” Aziraphale is in top bastard form and Crowley loves it.

A hand presses between his shoulder blades, urging him to bend over the counter. Crowley folds his arms and lays his head on them, wiggling his hips at Aziraphale as he gets comfortable.

The snap of the lube bottle cap sounds far more erotic than it should, some kind of pavlovian response that Crowley has been conditioned into, he supposes. Before he can think on it too long, Aziraphale is circling Crowley’s hole with a slippery finger, teasing his entrance. He’s still sensitive from the earlier attentions of Aziraphale’s tongue; the contact makes him hum in pleasure and push himself back a touch.

“Greedy thing, where were you twenty minutes ago when I was looking for you?” Aziraphale breaches Crowley with a finger as he asks.

“I was right here, trying to make you decent macarons.”

Aziraphale opens Crowley up slowly, kissing his back through the soft material of his t-shirt and whispering encouragement whenever Crowley grows too needy. Crowley’s sure that he’s been ready to go for some time, but Aziraphale is still fucking him with just his fingers, nudging at the angles that Crowley likes best.

“Please, Aziraphale, you’re killing me. I need you inside me.” Crowley lifts his head to whine, earning a chuckle from Aziraphale.

“Well, far be it for me to deprive you, sweetheart.”

Crowley can hear the unspoken undercurrent of “serves you right” in Aziraphale’s tone but it only matters for a few seconds because then Aziraphale is rubbing the head of his cock against Crowley’s hole and holding one of his hips in a firm grasp.

Something guttural and animalistic breaks from Aziraphale’s throat as he sinks into Crowley, filling him up in the most delicious way. He’s possessing Crowley, claiming him, taking him right there in the kitchen of their home. Crowley can barely remember feeling so elated and euphoric.

After two or three slow strokes, getting them both accustomed to the sensations, Aziraphale digs his fingers into Crowley’s hips and holds him still whilst building up to a thorough fucking. Crowley’s cheek drags against his arm as Aziraphale’s thrusts rock his entire body.

“Ah, yes! There!” Crowley gasps, feeling the urgency of Aziraphale’s movements and knowing that it’s all because Aziraphale loves him, wants him.

“You feel incredible, Crowley. I want you like this all the time, half naked and so delicious,” Aziraphale growls, thrusting harder still. “How can I resist you when you’re baking for me? I love you so much, you’re beautiful, impossible, _mine_.”

Crowley cries out, pleasure choking his objections. All he can do is bury his face in his arms and be glad that his t-shirt is hiding the full torso blush that’s taken hold.

Not a moment too soon, Aziraphale wraps his clever fingers around Crowley’s cock and strokes him in time with the punishing rhythm of his thrusts.

“I’m close, can you come with me? I want you to, my love.” Aziraphale punctuates his words with kisses across Crowley’s back.

“Yes, yes, yes, angel, tell me,” Crowley’s orgasm is building fast but he can hold off a little longer.

Aziraphale grunts again, his thrusts beginning to vary as he nears his edge. He grabs at Crowley, still pumping his cock and sliding his other hand up Crowley’s chest, under his t-shirt. Crowley feels crushed against him, like Aziraphale wants him as close as possible.

“Now, Crowley. Oh, lord. Ah!” Aziraphale gives a moment’s notice and then is pulsing inside Crowley, panting through the shocks of his climax.

Urged on, Crowley relaxes into his orgasm, letting up the choke hold of his self-control just in time to spill hot and wet over Aziraphale’s hand as he’s being filled with his lover’s seed.

Spent and shivery, Crowley relies on the counter to keep him up. Aziraphale rests on his back, breathing deeply and murmuring half-formed words of love and praise.

“Love you, angel,” Crowley says, groggy and thick tongued.

Eventually, Aziraphale withdraws with a gasp and a loving caress.

“Stay there, dearest. Let me take care of you.” Aziraphale cleans his hand before seeing to Crowley with a soft washcloth that almost certainly hadn’t been in the kitchen two minutes before.

“There we are,” Aziraphale says as he wipes lube and come off the backs of Crowley’s thighs. “All clean.”

Crowley doesn’t mean to laugh but his apron is clinging wetly to his front, splattered with evidence of his orgasm. He turns away from the counter, feeling silly as he practically giggles.

“Mess is supposed to be on the outside of these,” Crowley indicates his apron and the wet patch on it.

Aziraphale’s face struggles to land between glee and apology, laughing with Crowley as he complains.

“I’m sorry, love! Let me help you, here,” Aziraphale reaches to turn Crowley by the hips, untying the strings at the back and holding it away from Crowley’s body as he ducks his head free. “You might as well take your shirt off too. Seems daft to keep it on.”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkle with poorly concealed mischief as he makes his suggestion but Crowley pulls the t-shirt over his head anyway and throws it at Aziraphale’s face.

“Happy now, angel?” Crowley asks, standing fully nude in the kitchen and looking expectantly at Aziraphale.

“Incandescently, yes.” Aziraphale beams a sunshine smile so warm that Crowley considers basking in it.

“Any objection to me finishing these macarons, then?” Crowley’s tone aims for grouchy but lands firmly in fond-if-exasperated.

Aziraphale throws the bundle of clothing into the washing machine and closes the door before taking his seat at the table once more. For someone naked from the waist down, Crowley thinks he manages to look remarkably prim.

“No objection at all. Especially now my view is so vastly improved.”

Shooting his husband a grimace that’s all bark and no bite, Crowley returns to his interrupted challenge. The worst is over and the macaron shells are looking very promising. He only has to make the filling and assemble the little buggers, simple stuff.

The cream is already in a saucepan, waiting to go on the hob, and the chocolate is broken up in a bowl. Crowley’s preparation was thorough, if not angel-proof. He heats the cream until it’s just beginning to boil, very carefully taking it off the hob and pouring it over the chocolate. It appears that there’s nothing like having one’s genitalia visible whilst carrying a boiling liquid to make a person extra careful.

While the chocolate is melting, Crowley washes the pan and starts putting away the dishes on the drying rack. He turns back from putting the mixing bowls in their cupboard to find Aziraphale sneaking over to the bowl of almost-ganache.

“Don’t even think about it! You’ve caused enough trouble already,” Crowley scolds Aziraphale who at least has the grace to look guilty. “The last thing I need now is to be distracted by having to tend to your burnt and greedy fingers!”

“You’re no fun,” Aziraphale grouses, returning to his seat with a brief detour for a kiss.

Crowley combines the now-melted chocolate and cream with a spatula, scraping down the sides of the bowl to get all the stubborn parts. Once he’s happy with the mixture, he drops in the last ingredient he had prepared: a small amount of butter cut into cubes.

He stirs until the mixture is smooth and well-combined, again scraping the sides to get everything incorporated as much as possible. It’ll thicken up enough for piping soon, but there’s no real rush. Crowley fetches a teaspoon out of the cutlery drawer and scoops out a little of the filling for a taste. He’s pleased with the flavour and the texture, although the colour is lighter than he’d hoped. In order to achieve his desired aesthetic, Crowley rummages through the drawer where his baking supplies are stored until he finds the black gel colouring. A tiny drip from that bottle goes a long way in darkening the chocolate filling, satisfying Crowley once he’s mixed it through.

Scooping out a much more generous spoonful, Crowley presents the teaspoon to Aziraphale and drapes himself across his husband’s lap.

“Oh, darling, it’s delicious,” Aziraphale says after his first taste and is then silenced until the spoon is licked clean.

“Of course, love. Only the best for you.” Crowley is feeling indulgent and doesn’t mind showing it.

As Aziraphale licks the filling off the spoon, Crowley nuzzles into his hair and clings on to his neck, pressing kisses wherever feels right. As fun as an impromptu romp in the kitchen may be, Crowley still prefers the cuddling and shared intimacy that follows a more leisurely enjoyment of each other.

“My poor sweetheart. So deprived of affection, aren’t you?” Aziraphale gives Crowley a squeeze around the waist as he teases.

“Hush, cruel beast. Just wanna cuddle you for a minute.” Crowley shifts as he speaks, moving to straddle Aziraphale’s thighs and wrap around him like a koala.

They sit like this for some time, casually petting each other and kissing when the mood strikes. When you exist outside of time, an hour long cuddle is a drop in the ocean. Eventually, Crowley extracts himself from the comfort of Aziraphale’s embrace and faces the final stage of macaron creation.

Aziraphale comes over to watch as Crowley scrapes the thickened filling into a piping bag and clears any air bubbles. He pipes a little heart shape onto the back of Aziraphale’s hand, both as a distraction for Aziraphale and to get a feel for the consistency of the filling. Once he’s content, Crowley pipes neat circles on to half of the macaron shells, leaving the centres clear. Aziraphale seems mesmerised by the deft flicks of Crowley’s wrist, absorbed by the competence that Crowley displays with such ease.

“That’s dreadfully attractive, you know,” Aziraphale says when Crowley’s finished piping, “Watching you be so _proficient_ at something, I could do this for hours and never be bored.”

Crowley opens the fridge and hides his pleased blush behind the door, taking longer than necessary to locate the jar of home made rhubarb jam he’d been saving for this project. Again, he gives Aziraphale a little taste of the jam, still weak for the soft, pleading look that Aziraphale has perfected over the millennia.

Crowley fills the centre of each macaron half with a small blob of rhubarb jam and places a plain shell on top, completing the sandwich effect. Once all 12 are finished, he takes a step back to admire them.

The shells have a satin sheen and perfect shape, the ganache is smooth and even, the red shells are vibrant against the black filling. Overall, they are a visual triumph, just as Crowley had hoped. He fetches a stylish white plate from a cupboard and arranges the macarons in artful disarray, the kind of arrangement that makes sure you know how much effort went into perfecting the casual tumble. Aziraphale is beginning to whine, as if this part of the process is alien to him and not something he’s been party to for every one of Crowley’s successful bakes.

Naked as he is, Crowley’s phone isn’t immediately to hand and it takes him a moment to locate it on the table. He snaps a few photos, changes the arrangement of utensils and decoration in the background, and takes a few more.

“Alright, angel. Take a bite and tell me what you think.”

Crowley’s phone is ignored for the moment in favour of the main event, the reason for this whole production, the pot of gold at the end of his rainbow; the tasting is about to happen.

Aziraphale plucks the macaron at the top of the pile and turns it around between his fingers, admiring it. Crowley is on the edge of his metaphorical seat as Aziraphale lifts the macaron to his mouth, lips parting to show neat teeth. The shell crunches and gives way to softness within, not crumbling or resisting- Aziraphale takes a clean bite. His eyes flutter closed and Crowley can see where his tongue is working, melting and spreading the taste around his mouth. Just before he swallows, Aziraphale moans low and lusty, giving Crowley the satisfaction of a job done to perfection. He’s not surprised when his cock twitches to register its interest.

Aziraphale swallows and opens his eyes, looking at Crowley with more adoration than he can bear.

“Oh, my love. I’ve never tasted anything better in my life. You’ve outdone yourself, truly. A great success!”

Crowley kisses him before he can continue his litany of praise, his hands cupping Aziraphale’s face as he pour all of his love into this brief contact of lips. When he pulls away, Aziraphale’s lips are pink from the food colouring.

“Let me just...” Crowley trails off, picking up the plate of macarons and sliding them into the fridge, nabbing one for himself. He bites it and nods, his mouth turned in an expression of grudging acknowledgement of a job well done. “Right, you. Bedroom, now.” Crowley chases Aziraphale out of the kitchen and along the hallway to their bedroom where he spends the rest of the day showing Aziraphale some of the many other things he’s attractively proficient at.

**Author's Note:**

> [Here is the recipe that Crowley is using!](https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/macarons)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Mise en Place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629584) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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